


Underneath Your Ruins

by Schattenspiel (Oxycontin)



Series: Unspoken [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, Old Age, Post S3, Suicide, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3816313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oxycontin/pseuds/Schattenspiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilda went back into the room and sat next to John, a hand setting gently on his hand squeezing the scarf.</p><p>"Tell him I said hello." Wilda said softly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath Your Ruins

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to The File on You Complete.

_John opened his eyes sleepily and found that it's still dark outside._

_He shook his head and sank back into his pillow, closing his eyes again. Sherlock was really busy with the new case, there's no telling whether he would drag John on an investigation on a whim. He needed all the sleep he could get._

_He fell back to sleep._

***

Wilda was ten the first time she was told that Sherlock Holmes was dead.

That day she discovered her parents' wedding photos. Her dad told her about the wedding, and, of course, his best man Sherlock Holmes, her hero in all those bedtime stories when she was younger. Oh, to think there's an attempted murder at his father's wedding. After that Wilda asked John why Sherlock'd never shown up in their life if they're such good friends.

There was a brief silence, not unlike the one before John explained to her that Sherlock's first name was actually William. And then John told her Sherlock was dead.

She was surprised, sad beyond words. Dad talked about him all the time and she didn't know...she had always been obsessed with this mysterious detective in all John's stories, trying to make deductions all the time (which turn out to be spectacular failures half the time) though she doubted if he was real at times. She even made John allow her to learn how to play the violin after knowing that Sherlock played the violin (later she found it wasn't much fun but didn't give up anyway). She asked why, she asked how, and John just shook his head and changed the subject.

There was an envelope in the album, addressed to Dr and Mrs Watson. Music sheets inside. John said it was the waltz Sherlock composed for him and her mom. Wilda opened it and read, trying not to hum the tune. Afterwards she took it when John wasn't watching and tucked it in a thick book, saving it for later practice.

She couldn't quite bring herself to actually play it for years, though.

***

_John was wandering in a Tesco. He forgot to take his shopping list and couldn't remember what he intended to buy._

_Milk. Must have been milk. Sherlock, the lazy bastard, couldn't be arsed to remember this sort of stuff. He offered to buy milk sometimes to stop John complaining but never did it. John even doubted if Sherlock knew where Tesco is._

_Hopefully the fridge wouldn't stink with Sherlock's new experiment._

***

Wilda was fourteen the first time she was told that her dad used to have a blog.

That day dad was at school to pick her up. The mother of a new boy here suddenly started chatting John up.

"Excuse me, have I seen you somewhere before? Mr..."

"Watson. John Watson. I'm a doctor."

"...oh! Oh dear! You're the friend of that detective, right? Sherlock Holmes? What a surprise! I was a fan of your blog back then, Dr Watson. You stopped updating ages ago. Pity, that. What happened? I think--"

John looked extremely uncomfortable, made an excuse and left with Wilda in a hurry. "You had a blog?" Wilda asked on their way home.

"It was a long time ago," John sighs and didn't say anything after that. You had fans? Really? Wilda wanted to say but stopped herself. When she got home she searched it on the Internet and finished reading the contents in three days, using her spare time. She recognised some stories she had heard, briefer versions, but also containing things John didn't tell her.

She read Sherlock's comments and found Sherlock's old website. This was the first time she had found something about the detective outside of John's descriptions. It felt strange. Of course, she didn't tell John.

***

_Tea. John stretched, rubbed at his eyes and put the kettle on. He made two, naturally, in the way they like. Sherlock was quiet, probably sleeping, then maybe he shouldn't have made the tea for him. But he could be hiding in his room, up to no good. Maybe he'd come out wearing nothing but a sheet._

_And John would laugh at him, but John liked it when Sherlock wore nothing but a sheet. Not that John would ever admit it._

***

Wilda was twenty-three the first time she heard the full story, or so she thought.

That day she went to her dad's for a visit and stays the night. It didn't feel right, seeing him all alone like that. It wasn't difficult to get over her mother - she barely knew her after all - and so she suggested, "You should find someone, you know. You never did, though, never seen you going on a date even once. Don't know why."

John laughed. "Charming as I am, it's hardly the time for it now. There's no need for that. I can manage perfectly."

"I mean it. It's never too late."

"So do I. Not necessary."

"Wouldn't you feel...lonely?"

"Says the one who dumped me in the first place," John joked. "Don't worry, dear. I'm used to it."

That night, however, when they were sitting on the sofa not-really-watching telly, dad told her the full story (or so she thought). How he met Sherlock, days back in Baker Street, cases, Moriarty, the three years when Sherlock was away, Wilda's mother, Sherlock coming back, the wedding, and...the end. Sherlock went to eastern Europe and never came back, John didn't know he was dead until several years later.

Though a little hard to believe, Wilda knew there was no need for John to lie. She didn't know what to think about Mary. Neither did she know what to think about the length Sherlock went to so as to keep them safe.

After a while they said goodnight, as if nothing happened. They were both pretty good at that, pretending nothing happened. John still mentioned Sherlock from time to time.

In hindsight, Wilda should have thought about it, what made John want to tell her all this.

Once in a while, there were questions, all these years, when people realised who her father was. Whether they had been together. She had wondered as well, finding herself not against the idea. She had seen those conversations like old married couples' on the blog and the forum herself, after all. But not likely. Dad got married and had her--who could be that stupid, willing to be the best man of the one he loved?

But she wasn't so sure, now.

***

_Shopping bags in hand, John walked to the door to 221B, wondering why he had chosen a Tesco so far away. He found the knocker straight and crooked it a bit. He fumbled with his keys - and found he couldn't open the door with any of them._

_He realised something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong._

***

Wilda was twenty-seven when John was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.

The tenants of 221B nowadays found John at the doorstep, who was confused in the extreme. The doctors said it was only a matter of time before it got worse. She blamed herself for not finding it out sooner, though she probably wouldn't have, having mistaken the mood swings and forgetfulness for old age. All these symptoms she had overlooked, and John himself...he probably didn't realise it. After he knew the diagnosis he buried his face in his hands, not saying a word.

She moved in with him and hired help. She made a thorough search around the flat, getting rid of dangerous things. She couldn't find the gun anywhere, though. It wasn't where she remembered it had been, in the drawer. After a month of trying she could only assume John disposed of it at some point. Probably a long time ago. She asked, when John was conscious, and he said he had forgotten it.

John forgot more and more. He became grumpy, quite so, emotional like a child, frequently throwing fits for the tiniest things. He mixed things up, time and memories, and sometimes he didn't even recognise Wilda, just asking for his little girl when she was right in front of him. And sometimes he was so convinced he should be somewhere else. Kent, Afghanistan, London, or Baker Street. Baker Street. _Baker Street. Sherlock. Where is Sherlock? Is he at the Yard? I texted him and he didn't text back. No one else will make him remember to eat._

It was worse for Wilda when John occasionally added a chuckle.

She told him the truth the first time, a mistake she didn't wish to repeat a second time. She didn't want to explain things again and again just to watch his confused face fell into shock and horror. _He's out. At Bart's, probably. He went to buy some stuff, something like that. Must be busy._

Sometimes Wilda almost wanted to slam the door and lock herself in a room, just so she could freely tear at her hair and scream. It was nigh unbearable, watching her father like this. It hurt. It hurt so much. She never thought she needed to cherish those casual, normal days they had together, before. And finally she did, now that they occurred less and less, now that it was almost too late.

She managed to rent 221B. Mrs Hudson passed away a long time ago. The current owner was some relative of hers. Took her a week convincing him and the tenants. Then she started to contact people. Greg, Molly, even Philip Anderson, so she could figure out what the old flat was like.

That was when Mycroft Holmes called her, the coldness in his voice politely masked. She felt quite uneasy stomaching the idea of meeting him. There were many reasons she tried to avoid him, though she knew he kept all the things Sherlock had had. It would be extremely awkward. How could one face his own brother's death without a trace of discomfort?

But she went anyway. She went to the place (an empty house) and met an old man. Despite his age, the sharpness of his gaze was rather unnerving. The feeling of being looked through was unpleasant enough as it is. Would it be the same, if it were Sherlock Holmes looking at her?

"I believe we can skip the introductions." Mycroft drawled.

"Certainly."

"Then I'll come straight to the point. You rented 221B and plans to move in, along with your father."

"Yes," she hesitated before saying. "I want the flat to be like before, back when he lived there. My father...I think you know. I just want to do what I can." Considering he talked about the three am violin more than he talked about her mother.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "So you knew."

Wilda knew what he was referring to, or at least she thought she did. She nodded.

Mycroft smiled, though Wilda could tell he wasn't glad in the slightest. "Very well. The thing is, Miss Watson, I'm keeping my brother's belongings as well as old footage. I can give them to you."

 _Footage, oh really?_  Shoving away the thought, she could sense some unspoken demand, but Mycroft didn't go on.

"In exchange of what?" She asked.

"You do take after your father a lot." The man said, somewhat amused.

Wilda defiantly raised her chin a bit, expecting a challenge. "Of which I'm glad."

"Sherlock would have liked you. Pity he found himself an excuse to flee from this, once and for all," Mycroft shaked his head with a wry smile. _Flee from what?_

She didn't ask. She knew.

"You play the violin, Miss Watson."

"A bit out of practice," because of her dad, "but yes."

"When Sherlock left, he took his violin with him, which is now in my keeping," Mycroft looked downwards. "I can have all the other things sent to you. This item, however, is not one I can easily give up. I have my terms."

Her heart skipped a beat. As much as Wilda hated situations like this, the violin is, in some sense, the sole reason for which she learned to play the violin.

"I want you to play for me, Miss Watson. Whichever piece to your liking, and then it will be yours."

A sadness struck her then and there, and she suddenly felt so sorry for this man she'd never met before. She agreed. Of course she agreed.

The day they moved, John was actually aware of it. His gaze swept across the room and there were tears in his eyes. "Oh, Willie, thank you, darling. Thank you," he choked out.

Wilda sorted out Sherlock's things and put some of them in the flat. The skull, files, books, several printers. She hung an old coat behind the door (which was wrapping a ridiculously ugly old jumper) and painted a yellow smiley face on the new wallpaper.

She's getting used to it, John blabbing about Sherlock or drowning in his own world and his unfocused eyes. Except no one really got used to it, she was just too numb to think about it.

One day, John was slouching in a wheelchair when he blurted out, sadly and quietly, "I'm sorry."

Wilda's heart sank, but she feigned a bright smile. "What for?"

John sighed. "You're stuck with your old man. Anything can be better than this-- you should go out, find a boyfriend--"

"Boring." She struggled to keep her voice even.

"You sound like him, you know," John chuckled sadly. "You're spoiling me. I didn't realize there was something wrong. It's too hard. I got used to it after all these years, him taking up every bit of spare space in my head..." he trailed off.

 _Did you love him, dad?_ Wilda almost asked him. But when she turned around, he had already fallen into the mist.

***

_The morning light crept in through the curtains. John woke up, with Sherlock still in his arms, seemingly asleep. He couldn't help but smile, pressing his cheek to Sherlock's warm, soft skin. He stared at the white scars across Sherlock's shoulder blades and traced the line with his lips, murmuring "I love you"._

_He didn't expect an response, which was why Sherlock's deep baritone startled him. "So do I. Morning." John could hear the smile in his voice._

_"What did you say?" John arched one eyebrow._

_"I said, so do I."_

_"Idiot. How long have you been awake?" John said affectionately._

_"I didn't sleep." John could feel the rumbling voice vibrating through his chest. Sherlock turned around in his arms and kissed John._

_And it was so very hard to say goodbye._

_"Last night..." when they broke the kiss John said, and Sherlock stiffens instantly. John continued promptly, "no, no, it's not like that. I'm not...regretting anything. I mean, last night, you said...you said you were leaving in the morning."_

_Sherlock relaxed, and said after some thinking, "I suppose I've changed my mind."_

_"Sorry?"_

_"To hell with the mission. I'm going back to London."_

_"You mean it," John said bemusedly._

_"Yes. I'll think of something. I will."_

_"You will?"_

_"I will."_

_John doesn't know what to say and he couldn't help but grin until his face hurt from the stretch. There will be problems. Countless problems, no doubt. But now, right now, he couldn't bring himeself to care at all._

***

Wilda was twenty-nine the first time she asked John what she was wondering all along. John was sitting in his armchair, staring unseeingly into the chair opposite him. Normally he would't notice whatever Wilda did. Wilda talked to him, not really expecting an response. She took out the violin and played as a routine. That day, she played the waltz Sherlock composed.

Waltz for John and Mary. It wasn't complicated, but beautiful nonetheless. A tune she learned by heart. Wilda sometimes wondered if she could reach back through the tune, along the rise and fall of each note right back to the origin, to the thoughts of a certain composing detective.

It ended.

"I remember this." She heard John's hoarse voice.

She turned and found tears streaming down his face.

"I made him my best man. The things I did...I...I didn't know..." John raised a shaking hand and covered his eyes.

"Dad. It's all right--"

"It isn't! He wrote to me, you see, after he had left. I went to Prague and he came to me, that night we...he said he would write to me. And he did, he wrote plenty of emails in two months and queued them, two emails each year and then he died. The idiot wanted me to think he's alive. If the bloody... thing...the system didn't go wrong, I may never have known..."

"Dad--"

"He just kept me in the dark!" John simply continued brokenly, "I...it could have been different. I should have done something. Should have told him. He didn't know. He never did. I...I..."

Wilda hesitated.

"Dad...did you love him?"

"I...yes. I did. I do."

***

_John stared at the wall reflected in the mirror, the empty crime wall. His tea went cold._

_Soon, Sherlock would be back. He would put all kinds of things on it, maps and charts and photos. There would be a Sherlock and a John, staying at 221B Baker Street forever and ever. Together._

***

Wilda was thirty the first time she heard gunshot in real life. She was startled awake by the sound, all sleep vanished in horror. Subconsciously she ran down the stairs to her dad's room to check. Opening the door with a slam and switching on the light, the first thing she saw was the blood on the wall.

John's body lay still on the bed, a gun in his left hand, an old scarf clutched in the other. Wilda closed her eyes. She didn't scream or cry.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw a note on the bedside table, not quite old, but the edges already worn.

_Forgive me, sweetie. I just can't go on like this._

She felt an eerie calm, checked the life signs and turned around mechanically, found the phone and called the police. Distantly she could hear the shouts of her neighbours. Wilda went back into the room and sat next to John, a hand setting gently on his hand squeezing the scarf.

"Tell him I said hello." Wilda said softly.


End file.
